Laurel crowns cleave to deserts And power to him who power exerts; Hast not thy share? On winged feet, Lo! it rushes thee to meet; . . .

No man can claim to usurp more than a few cubic feet of the audibilities of a public room. . . .

Why do we think love is a magician? Because the whole power of magic consists in love. The work of magic is the attraction of one thing by another because of a certain affinity of nature.

Law it is . . . which hears without ears, sees without eyes, moves without feet and seizes without hands.

Everyone believes that he abounds in wisdom, but is short of money.

The soul exists partly in eternity and partly in time.

Poetry being an attempt to express, not the common sense, - as the avoirdupois of the hero, or his structure in feet and inches, - but the beauty and soul in his aspect . . . runs into fable, personifies every fact. . . .